Archive for November 2002

A while ago I was in the queue in Sainsburys, idly staring at the random collection of humans who had chosen to do their shopping at the same time, when I noticed a pair of women dressed similarly in jeans and black bomber jackets, both with short, grey-flecked hair, who were standing together in the line. “Lesbians…” (The concept hung in my head at a sort of bovine level of understanding). Then I saw that a middle-aged man who looked like he must have been somebody’s husband was looking at the women too, and you could see that he too was there thinking: “Lesbians”, and I felt a bit ashamed.

Another while ago I was propelling Syd in his push-chariot towards nursery when a very short woman and her three small, small children blocked my path. I was still filled with the dull despair that follows the acute horror of returning to consciousness, and somehow the fact that all four of them were wearing puffa jackets made me sneer at them and their lives like some sort of thin, nasty malcontent. All too quickly, I realized that I, too, was wearing a puffa jacket, and I felt ashamed.

The drone set is coming together, thank fucking fuck. I’ve probably produced about ten tracks specifically for this event, but I doubt I’ll play more than two of them. When Simon mentioned the drone idea I thought “ha, piece of piss – drone is my default setting. Drones are what I do when I can’t be bothered to do some proper work,” but I’ve found it really difficult to get anything half-decent together. It’s something to do with working to order maybe. You suddenly kill the thing. Anyway, in the last week I’ve suddenly realized that I’ve got shitloads of droney pieces hanging around, products of not being bothered to do proper songs, but most of them are streets better than the nonsense I’ve been grafting at for the best part of a month (not a month in real time, obviously. I mean the spaces between beer, childcare, the facilitation of the retail of wholefood goods, plus masturbation and stuff). So yeah, interested parties will be aural witnesses to some hissy 1996 shit, and I feel quite good about that actually.

I fucking wish I’d asked to play that Bleepfest in the church sometime before the week in which it took place. Brilliant PA, brilliant natural sound, brilliant spectacle. Sincerely praying for another so I can get some Um footage of me rocking the rostrum, or whatever it’s called. I would be good though. I wouldn’t swear or get my bum out.

Can’t believe Kirk Leatham got a 909 for Â£70. If that had been me I would immediately follow through with my plan to form a Suicide tribute band with Dave called Hooeycide. That makes me wonder actually, has Sam Dead Elvis ever heard Suicide? He must have. If he hasn’t he’d explode, surely.

Susan reckons there’s a legend that there was a 303 in the window of Resale for Â£50, and when the person who’d seen it went back it had gone. Glad it wasn’t me. I’d have committed suicide.

Been trying to grow a beard over the last couple of weeks. Realized that if I ever wanted to have one without it being grey I’d have to get on with it, even if it is stupidly sparse in a follicle sense. Actually the chin and upper lip is sparse, the cheeks are deserted. Tried to convince myself that it was a conceptual beard to protest about the war (or whatever) and promote UM, but its just too crap. The other day I saw a student type with a beard (a reasonably fine one) and it was obvious he’d grown it for wacky style reasons and he just looked like a cunt, or how science teachers used to look in the 80s, so maybe the whole project is flawed. See how it goes I guess, but it’s already starting to feel like I’ve accidentally got something on my face. I have the support of my wife, however, even if she privately detests all beards